Ysmir Rising
by lioness84
Summary: She did it for Aventus. At least that was what she told herself, and in the beginning, it might have even been true. But a dragon's will to dominate cannot be denied, and as the lines between heroes and villains blur, Monica Aretino fights to control her true nature…or else be consumed by it.
1. Prologue: Voth Ahkrin

**A/N: Hello, all. This here is my first Skyrim fic, because I decided it was time to finally venture into the Fourth Era after years of writing about Oblivion. This is a two-part flash-forward prologue, so please bear with me through the page-and-a-half worth of Helgen. It serves a pretty distinct purpose here, but I tried to put a slightly different spin on it, and besides, it's very brief. Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoy it :)**

* * *

Ysmir Rising

Prologue: Voth Ahkrin

She willed herself to wake, cracking open bleary eyes and fighting to take in her surroundings. Her bones jarred against each other in time with the throbbing in her skull, and as the fog in her head began to lift, she made out the rhythm of hoofbeats. And then the fog burned away in a searing blast of clarity, as every memory from the past several days came rushing back in.

Her heart had somehow become lodged in her throat, displaced by crushing weight now filling her chest. The blond soldier across from her was speaking—to her, she presumed, by the way he had shifted forward, his eyes locking on to hers—but she only saw his mouth moving, his words drowned out by the roaring in her ears. She quickly looked away, forcing her gaze downward into her lap. The sight of her bound hands sent a hand of panic to her throat, so instead she stared intently at her knees, memorizing every dirt stain, every frayed thread.

As her breathing settled into some semblance of a rhythm, she began to slowly take note of the surrounding spectacle. A now-green forest and a downward slope—they were descending the mountain. Legion armor, flashes of Imperial crimson—the Empire had taken charge. More wagons ahead of this one—all filled with patches of familiar blue. A quick glance back to the blond soldier confirmed it—they were all now prisoners. Only she wasn't free.

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on her. Of course, though, she thought bitterly to herself. The Empire was thorough to a fault. They would have snapped up everyone in the camp—stopping to ask questions would have given the enemy the advantage. And any Legionnaire worth their salt would rather die than do so.

In one of her quick glances upward, she noted that another occupant of the wagon lacked the Stormcloak uniform. She lifted her head, thinking she'd found a friendly face—but no. This one was pale-skinned, with short, dark hair. She dropped her head again, but began gradually tuning into the conversation as the civilian stranger argued with the blond soldier. The stranger was mocking some other occupant of their wagon, but the blood froze in her veins at the soldier's reply. "Watch your tongue. You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

She went still, every muscle freezing in place. Her heart dropped back into place and began thudding out a frantic rhythm that blurred together into one single note of terror. _No. Not him. _She turned her head very slightly to the right, just a little further…and there. Ulfric Stormcloak sat just two places down from her.

Her head snapped back into place, and she once again forced her stare to her knees. Had he seen her? Oh Divines, don't let him have seen her. She was starting to perspire, and for a moment, she wildly considered the risks of hurling herself over the side of the wagon. But as she surveyed the mountain slope, she caught sight of something else through the trees.

Town walls rose up before them, and as they rounded a bend in the road, she could see the other wagons rolling through the gates. "Ah, Helgen," the soldier remarked as they rolled through. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here." His tone was relaxed—lazy, even. "And look, there's General Tullius, the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him." His tone soured. "Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."

Despite the fact that she was still plastered in the corner in hopes that Ulfric hadn't noticed her, she lifted her head again at the mention of General Tullius. Over the soldier's shoulder, there was an officer that could only be him, flanked by several imposing, golden-skinned figures clothed in black. "The Thalmor?" The alarm in the thief's voice was clear. "Then…then…"

As if on cue, an Imperial soldier called out as they rolled past. "General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting." The general gave a wave of acknowledgment, and the thief truly began to panic.

"Oh gods, no, this can't be happening. This isn't happening." It _was_ happening, though, and the quiet knowledge silently dawned on her. But instead of fear, a shiver of dark mirth ran along her spine. She would die today—but Ulfric would die along with her. And that thought alone was enough to settle her breathing and slow her heart, to square her shoulders as the wagons rolled to a stop.

"Shor. Mara. Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh—Divines, please help me!" the thief cried frantically. "We're not rebels!"

And as they stiffly lurched to their feet and shuffled off the end of the wagon, the soldier snapped a retort. "Face your death with some courage, thief!"

* * *

Years and hundreds of miles away, Monica rode up the final hill to Windhelm, the wind thrashing her hair wildly about her head. Gritting her teeth, she fought the urge to take her hands from the reins and yank it into submission, to tear it free from the gale's grasp. She glared up at the sky as the urge to Shout tickled her throat. Three little words. That was all it would take, and this infernal wind would die down. But she'd made a promise, and she'd already slipped up once this morning.

It hadn't entirely been her fault, though, she reasoned grumpily. Her foul mood had only been worsening the further east they traveled, and this morning, it had finally come to a head. Frost, sensing her nervousness, had sidestepped as she'd mounted, and she'd ended up sprawled across the ground as he skipped away. Vorstag had begun to guffaw loudly, and in a moment of indignation, she'd snapped out a single word.

He'd staggered, and she'd immediately leapt up and rushed to his side. But he'd only straightened up and brushed her off. _It's all right,_ he'd chuckled with that smarmy grin of his. _It's how the whole province sees you at this point, anyhow. The little girl with the big voice._ To which she had icily pointed out that she was twenty-six, and no more a little girl than he was a garden gnome. He'd apologized, but she'd still been seething for miles. And somehow, she was still angry.

Beneath her, Frost sensed her irritation and tossed his head, his strides shortening and speeding up. "Easy," she murmured, gently tightening the reins and patting his neck, smoothing the strands of his mane that the wind had tousled. The force in question ripped past again, and it was _cold_. Summer was at the doorstep in the southern part of the province, but here, you would never guess it.

As they crested the hill, the walls of Windhelm came into sight, and her stomach gave a lurch. Fortunately, Frost once again sensed her apprehension and went skittering forward, forcing her attention back to her nervous mount. For the next several minutes, she was fully engaged in soothing him, but when she finally looked back up, the walls were nearly upon them.

Her stomach tightened as they slowed to a halt at the stables, Frost nervously pawing at the ground as she slid off. He stopped as soon as her boots hit the ground, though, turning to nuzzle her arm, his eyes dark and trusting. She smiled despite herself, scratching his forelock before pausing to rest her forehead against his shoulder. She inhaled deeply as she closed her eyes, wishing she could just stand there like that forever.

"Doing all right there?" Esbern's shrewd comment brought her out of her reverie, and she forced a smile to her face as she turned to him. The elderly Nord had fixed her with his sharp gaze, and she had to quickly break eye contact. She couldn't lie that easily to Esbern.

"Yes." She tried to keep her tone brisk, but she was fairly certain her voice wavered. "Let's go."

Her heart continued to thunder as they crossed the bridge to the city, and once they were inside the walls, it grew even worse. Windhelm was a massive city, but its streets seemed to speed past beneath her feet as its walls closed in around her. As the Palace of the Kings rose up before them, she felt a spike of terror, and would have stopped dead in her tracks if not for the fact that Vorstag would have run straight into her back. Slowly, methodically, she forced herself forward. Right foot, left, right. One step at a time. And then the doors were before them, they were swinging open, and she was stepping into the Palace itself.

The sound of the doors clanging shut behind them may as well have been the sound of her doom. Her head swam, and for a moment, she felt slightly dizzy. Although it spanned the entire length of the palace, the room felt close, boxed in. And there, at the far end of the hall, was _him_.

Her boots were soundless on faded blue carpeting as she slunk forward, the shuffling of the Blades' armor behind her. Closer, closer still. The hum of the palace, the roaring in her ears, time itself ceased to exist—but the distance was closing so quickly. And then—she was standing mere feet from him.

He lounged on his throne, arms and legs spread wide open, taking up more space than the narrow stone seat afforded. His steward had stopped speaking, and he stared down at her, eyes narrowing. "Only the foolish or the courageous approach a jarl without summons."

His voice startled her. It hadn't changed—the tone, the cadence was exactly as she remembered, exactly as she heard it in her nightmares. But the _context_ was all wrong, confined within stone walls rather than echoing off a mountain.

She stared at him blankly. _The message. Just give him the message._ But as her dumbfounded silence lengthened, his frown deepened. "Do I know you?"

The disdain in his tone was so clear that for a moment, she forgot her fear. Her anger stirred, offended, eyes opening, wings rustling. Did he _know_ her_?_ And that was just the jolt she needed.

"I have a message from the Greybeards." Her voice came out sounding all gravelly, the words running together too fast. But the Jarl of Windhelm rolled his eyes, his expression falling.

"About time," he snorted. "Too long have they had their gaze on the heavens instead of on our bleeding homeland." For a moment, he stared at the ceiling, and then his eyes sharply dropped back to her. "What do they want?" he asked pointedly.

She drew in a deep breath. "The Greybeards request your presence at a peace council to be held at High Hrothgar in a week's time." He said nothing, and she nervously continued. "They want to negotiate a truce. Until the dragon menace has been dealt with."

He continued to sit in silence, his stare unnerving. She willed herself not to quaver beneath his gaze. Then he abruptly stood, and she barely—just _barely_—stopped herself from flinching.

"Shor's bones, are they serious?" He heavily tread down the steps of his throne. "I have the greatest respect for the Greybeards, of course. I have studied their ways, and I lived among them for many years." He was so close now. So very close. "But they ask too much." He wandered a few steps away, and she breathed a little easier.

"The political situation is delicate," he continued. "Not all of the jarls are committed to supporting me as High King. This is a crucial time. I can't afford to appear weak; do they not understand?" As he spoke, her anger reared its head.

"Alduin has returned. The World Eater himself. Do _you_ not understand?" She blurted out the words without thinking, and he suddenly wheeled on her.

"Excuse me?" His words were a low, terse thunder. "May I remind you who you're speaking to?" His eyes were darkening, the lines of his face stiffening into an expression of quiet, calculated fury that she knew only too well. Only instead of terror, it was laughter bubbling up inside her.

"Do you know who I am?" Her rage was in full force now, wings spread, maw cracked and ready to unleash an inferno.

"Should I?" His eyebrows had risen high with incredulity. And oh, there were so many answers to that question. So many ways she could have lashed back. But instead, she took the simplest route, the most direct.

"Perhaps a taste of my Thu'um would provide an answer to that question." She advanced a step toward him, watching as the knowledge sparked in his eyes, and then as his face twisted into a new, soured expression. And when he finally spoke, the words were spat as though they tasted foul on his tongue.

"Dragonborn." The malice in his tone singed through her—and her rage basked in it. "You can Shout. The way dragons themselves do. No training—just pure, inborn instinct. I have heard the rumors, yet…" His eyes narrowed, nose and mouth wrinkling. "Here you are." His distaste was not lost on her, but the snub could not pierce the hide of her rage; it was soaring too high. Instead, her lips curved into a smile.

"The Greybeards request your presence at High Hrothgar in week's time," she repeated, her tone pleasant and even. "I would suggest you be there, Jarl Ulfric. General Tullius has already agreed to attend." She took another step forward. "And after all—what good is there to being High King if there's no country left to rule? Alduin _will_ fulfill his destiny—unless I fulfill mine first."

She'd backed him in into a corner and he knew it. A storm was crossing his face, his eyes gone cold and calculating. But she'd also provided him with the means to save face. "Tullius will be there?" He gave a heavy sigh. "We still hold half of Skyrim despite everything the Empire could throw against us. I doubt they have the stomach for much more bloodletting." He wandered over to the base of his throne, then abruptly turned back to Monica. "Yes. I'll give Tullius one more chance to quit Skyrim with his tail between his legs."

She nodded. "Excellent. I'll pass the word along to the Greybeards." And she quickly turned and began to traverse the distance of the palace once again.

"I remember you, you know." She froze at his words. "We met in the Jeralls, did we not? Before Helgen." Her rage faltered, and fell into a tailspin, spiraling back down, its fire drained away. Her mouth suddenly felt very dry, and the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach had returned full force. Her chest was seizing painfully, and she wanted to run, to flee straight out the doors and just keep _running_.

But she tightened her jaw, forcing herself to turn and face him. He stood on the steps of his throne, staring intently at her. But instead of a sneer, or a triumphant smirk, his expression was empty. He merely watched her. Despite the tempest raging inside her, she slowly realized that it was a challenge. A desperate, last-ditch effort of a challenge, but a challenge nonetheless. And if there was one thing she understood, it was the nature of a challenge.

Her anger rose again, soaring along as a new kind of courage settled over her. She stiffly set her face into a smile. "Then you remember that you've already angered me," she said coldly. "And I assure you, it would be very unwise to do so again." Her smile brightened. "High Hrothgar. One week. Be there." And she turned and walked out of the palace as fast as she dared.

Outside, she allowed her step to quicken. As her feet sped over the paving stones, she heard the shouts behind her. "Monica!" She grimaced, gritting her teeth together as she slowed her stride ever so slightly. Vorstag was so damn _loud_. All she wanted to do was get out of the city as quickly as possible, but a few nearby bystanders were glancing their way, and she could feel the beginnings of a scene.

She heard the sounds of panting over her left shoulder, along with the clank of heavy armor as the burly Blade jogged up beside her. "The Jarl. Ulfric. You knew him?" he asked bluntly. She winced, but before she could form a reply, another, softer voice cut in.

"Not now, Vorstag." Oh, praise the Divines for Esbern. He appeared beside Vorstag, and she silently shot him a look of gratitude, which he returned with a discreet nod. And bless Vorstag, for wisely shutting up. But the Blade's curiosity was far from sated.

He fell in step beside her as they crossed the city, and as they blended into the moderate traffic near the gates, he turned to her once again. "Helgen?" he muttered beside her ear.

"_Vorstag_." Esbern's mild reprimand caused him to reluctantly straighten, but she rolled her eyes just the same.

"It's a long story, Vorstag," she sighed. A stern look from Esbern kept him from pressing further, but her mind was already racing.

They had made it outside the walls. The wind was still howling, but she no longer paid it any mind. She lifted her face to it, drawing in a breath of cold spring air as they strode along. The tension was draining from her limbs, her pulse was settling back into a regular rhythm. But the burning in her chest remained. Her fear was gone—she'd left it behind in the Palace of the Kings. Now, the anger had taken its place.

But despite the warmth of its fire, she called to memory the dossier. The grim content of its pages. The solemn knowledge that she and the Jarl of Windhelm had far more in common than she would have liked to admit. And her ever-hardening resolution that she would never become like him—twisted by bitterness and warped by festered hatred.

_Lok, Thu'um_. She silently repeated the phrase, a reminder. They had reached the stables; Windhelm was already in the distance. And for a moment or two, she allowed herself to remember.


	2. Chapter 1: The Spring Snows Have Melted

**A/N: First official chapter! A little exposition, plus the introduction of the actual plot :)**

* * *

Chapter 1: The Spring Snows Have Melted

When serving under nobles, there was one important rule to remember: _keep them happy_. And when keeping them happy meant spending an afternoon outside the walls under a beautiful summer sky, Monica was more than willing to oblige. Even if the excursion was doomed to be entirely unproductive.

The golden grass crunched under her feet as she wandered forward, heading toward a clump of wildflowers. Quickly plucking a few stalks, she scraped at them with a fingernail, only for them to merely crumble away. She sighed, but tossed them into her basket just the same. She'd known her search would yield no results, but her mother had still insisted on it. "Just make an _effort_," she'd hissed as they parted ways that morning. And Monica had done just that, too excited by the prospect of a day spent out in the sun to protest.

It had all started back in the winter, when her aunt's New Life gift had arrived: a silk ribbon, imported from Alinor. She hadn't given it a second thought when she'd tied it in her hair before rushing off to the feast—but the moment she'd walked into the dining hall, Lady Adlen had descended on her.

After she'd spent a good ten minutes fawning over the color of the ribbon, she had wheeled on Monica's mother and demanded a dress of the same material. And after being informed that importing enough of the fabric for a dress into Cyrodiil would be nigh on impossible, she had instead demanded that a dye of the same color be created.

And so for the past six months, Monica had lain awake at night, kept up by the sounds of her mother cursing from her laboratory as she struggled to brew the perfect formula. But none of her results had even come close, and Lady Adlen was only growing more impatient. When the lady had pointed out the window and shouted that _surely_ there was some mystery plant growing out there that could yield the shade she wanted, her head seamstress had simply sighed, pushed a basket into her daughter's hands, and with a pointed look, silently reminded her of the cardinal rule of working under nobles. And Monica had gleefully fled, scarcely able to believe her luck.

But that had been hours ago. The afternoon sun was blazing, and her dress was soaked with sweat under the arms and down the back. Setting the basket down with a weary sigh, she stretched her arms over her head, feeling her spine pop as she did so. Glancing down, she considered the contents of the basket. Along with the dead wildflowers, she'd also picked up a few flax plants. She was fairly certain her mother had already been unsuccessful with using flax in a dye, but these were a similar shade to what Lady Adlen was looking for, so she'd picked them up anyway. Maybe her mother could figure out some way to make them work. Hoisting up the basket again, she turned and began trudging toward the road. She'd poke around on the east side for a bit and then call it a day.

"Excuse me!" The unexpected voice jolted her from her thoughts, sending her head snapping toward the road. The sweaty man was breathing heavily, hunched over with his hands planted on his knees—an unthreatening posture, but her hackles still rose. Nobody ever came this far up the road. Not like this, alone and on foot. She gripped the handle of the basket a little tighter, suddenly wishing she'd thought to bring along a spear or something. "You wouldn't happen to know the way to Battlehorn, would you?"

She approached cautiously, prepared to flee if he made any sudden moves. "Depends," she answered, slowly pronouncing the word. "What's your business there?"

"Got something I'm supposed to deliver." He indicated toward the satchel at his side, and she immediately recognized the courier's insignia. "That fellow back in Chorrol said I'd hit it if I just kept taking the road west, but…" He shrugged. "Is this still that road? I haven't passed it or anything, have I?"

Her initial wariness forgotten, she found herself breaking into a smile. "You're on the right track, but you're not there yet." She pointed up the road behind her. "Just keep going." Her smile widened when his face twisted into a grimace. "You're closer than you think," she reassured. "No more than twenty minutes out."

The courier groaned, but he straightened up, mopping at his forehead. "I'd best be going, then," he sighed. "Thank you." She nodded in acknowledgement, and drifted to the other side of the road as he continued his trek up the hill.

* * *

A couple of hours later, she was following in the courier's footsteps, having determined that there was absolutely nothing on the east side of the road that would be of any use to Lady Adlen. Her feet ached, she could feel the beginnings of a sunburn spreading across her cheeks, and she was dead tired, but she still managed to return the guard's wave as she passed through the gates.

As she entered the courtyard, however, she caught sight of a familiar figure at the forge. Her breath catching in her throat, she immediately altered her course, heading for the stairs up to the battlements. She could enter her family's quarters through the north tower easily enough; it'd be going the long way, but it'd be worth it to avoid certain people. Before her foot even touched the first stair, though, she heard the sound of her name.

"Monica! Hey Monica!" He'd seen her, then. Groaning under her breath, she slowly turned and made her way over to the forge and to the young man who was waving eagerly, dragging her feet with every step.

"Heidmir," she greeted. He'd discarded his heavy gloves and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, the muscles of his forearms rippling as he pushed his sweaty hair back from his forehead. He needed a haircut, she noted idly; it'd grown to the point where it nearly reached his shoulders.

"How've you been?" His grey eyes sparked with interest as he caught sight of her basket. "Been in the fields today?"

She sighed. "Not exactly," she admitted, rolling her eyes. "Do remember when my aunt sent me that ribbon for New Life?"

"The purple one?" He raised his eyebrows, and she stifled a sigh. Leave it to Heidmir to always remember the most mundane details.

"Yes, well, Lady Adlen has decided she needs a dress the same color," she began, shifting her basket from one arm to the other. The second unspoken rule of serving nobility, of course, was to show them respect at all times, but Heidmir was the one person she could always feel free to break that rule with. "My mother's been working day and night to create a dye for her, but none of them—"

"—Are ever good enough. Of course." He grinned, and her stomach turned over on itself.

"Right, so today I got sent out to hunt for ingredients. Only there's _nothing_ out there." She held up a mass of the wildflowers, and he chuckled at her grimace.

"Poor Lady Adlen. I wonder what she'll do when she finds out what a lost cause this is," he remarked, picking up one of the wildflowers from her basket and twirling it between his fingers.

"Not sure, but I don't want to be around to find out," she said wryly. He smiled, dropping his gaze down to the wildflower he still held, and an awkward silence fell.

"How's your father?" she asked quickly. "I haven't seen him in a while; does he still come up to the keep for dinner?"

Heidmir's gaze flickered back up to hers. "Eh, well, his heart's been giving him trouble. You know how that goes." He rolled his eyes, and she smiled ruefully. "Orbul says he needs to rest, so he's been staying inside. I can tend the forge myself easily enough, and he does more of the finer work. Finishing touches, that sort of thing." He leaned in closer as his tone dropped lower. "He's been pretty down about it, but we've got some news we're telling him tonight that should cheer him up."

"Oh?" She frowned slightly as Heidmir nodded, glancing over his shoulder before leaning forward to whisper in her ear.

"Kirsten's with child," he murmured. Her heart dropped into her stomach as he drew away with a smile, looking exceptionally pleased with himself.

"Oh," she managed faintly. "I see; that's…" She swallowed hard. "That's big news, Heidmir."

"I know." He gave a broad grin. "It was unexpected, but we're thrilled. Kirsten's already picking out names. She thinks it'll be a girl, but I think she's got at least twice as many boy's names on her list," he chuckled.

She was surprised by the spurt of venom that shot through her veins. Kirsten. His wife. Tall, blond, and gorgeous. But Heidmir was staring at her, waiting for a response, so she forced aside her resentment. None of this was Kirsten's fault, she reminded herself.

"Congratulations." She smiled. "You'll make a wonderful father."

"I hope so." He laughed, rolling his eyes, but then the merriment faded, and a tiny furrow appeared between his eyes. "You'll keep this to yourself, won't you? It's just we agreed to keep it quiet for the time being, and our parents don't even know yet…" He smiled apologetically, and she felt a faint prickle of annoyance. _Then why did you tell me?_

"Of course," she said, hoisting the basket up higher on her arm. "But I need to get these inside and hung up…"

"Right, of course, I won't keep you." His smile returned. "See you around, Monica. It was nice talking with you."

"You too." As he turned back to the forge, she exhaled the breath she'd been holding and slowly turned in the direction of the keep door. At this point, she reasoned sourly, there was no point in going out of her way.

* * *

Back in her family's quarters, she made her way for her mother's lab. The cool semi-darkness was a relief after the unrelenting inferno of the sun, and she paused for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust before she began rifling through her mother's desk. She found the string easily enough, deftly wrapping it around the stalks of the specimens and stringing them up along the drying wall. Now to tag them—her mother was meticulous about tagging.

The pre-cut squares of parchment were in their slot in the desk, as were the quills, but she had to hunt for the inkpot before finally finding it in the bergamot stores. Despite her bad humor, she found herself smiling as she returned to the desk. If there were an award for practicing organized chaos, her mother would most certainly be the winner. She began to carefully write out the descriptions of the plants and where they had been found, but in between the scratches of the quill, her ears picked up on another sound.

Frowning, she set aside the quill and stood, making her way over to the doorway. "Hello?" she called cautiously. There was no sign of anyone when she popped her head into the bedroom, but the sound persisted, something similar to a faint sniffling. "Mama?" She tiptoed toward the curtain that portioned off their eating area and, grasping hold of the faded cloth, slowly slid it aside—only to let out a gasp.

There sat her mother, tears streaming from her eyes, a piece of crumpled parchment clutched in her hand. "Mama!" She immediately rushed to her mother's side, fishing a handkerchief out of her pocket. "What is it? What's happened?" She eyed the parchment, but couldn't manage to make out any of the words.

"It's Naalia." Guinevere Aretino took the handkerchief and dabbed at reddened eyes. "She's dead." For a moment, Monica stared at her, unable to comprehend. Then, she felt the blood drain from her face.

"Aunt Naalia?" She sank into the chair across from her mother as she gasped the words out, and Guinevere shakily nodded. "What happened?" she asked quietly.

Guinevere straightened in her chair, glancing down at the parchment in hand. "Typhoid fever. It says she fell ill during the winter and never…" She began to sob again, and Monica sat in silence, her face propped in her hand. She'd only ever met her Aunt Naalia once, but she remembered a gentle, pleasant woman with a smile that could make the entire room glow. Naalia had always sent gifts for every New Life and birthday, and she and Guinevere stayed in contact over the years through letters. Although now that she thought about it, the last contact from Naalia had been around New Life; in fact, she had been the one to send the ribbon that had started Lady Adlen's fixation.

"How did we not know about this until now?"Monica finally asked. Guinevere held up the parchment.

"The courier said it was a harsh winter, and the spring snows blocking the pass only melted about a month back," she answered bleakly. "Besides, there's apparently trouble in the province, and he said all of their deliveries have been terribly backed up…" She trailed off as she dabbed away a new wave of tears, and a cold chill ran down Monica's spine as she realized that she had passed the grim messenger himself on the road.

"But the problem now," Guinevere sniffed into the handkerchief, "the problem is Aventus." Monica frowned as her mother continued. "We're the only family he has now, so that makes us his guardians. Only since we weren't there to take him in…" Monica's eyes widened as she realized the implications, and her hand shot across the table to pick up the letter.

"This is dated First Seed," she said urgently, jabbing a finger at the line bearing the date. "That was four months ago; he's not…he hasn't been…?"

"He's not on the streets, thank the Divines." Guinevere shook her head, pointing to the letter. "He's been sent to an orphanage in the next hold." She sighed. "Poor thing, though. I hate to think of him waiting there, thinking we've abandoned him…"

Monica gave a mummer of sympathy. She'd never met her young cousin, but he had written them several letters over the years, telling stories about his friends, his school and his pet dog in a direct, childish handwriting. "So what do we do?" she asked. "Hire someone to bring him here?"

Guinevere shook her head. "Mercenaries are expensive, Monica." She stood and crossed over to the cupboard, opening it up and feeling around the inner top of it before pulling something loose. "I have some coin saved, but it's not much." She tossed the coinpurse to her daughter, who grimaced at its weight as she hefted it in her hand. "We'll have to go get him ourselves and bring him back here, only…"

"Only?" Monica's eyebrows arched, and her mother carefully sat back down across from her.

"I've been thinking it over all afternoon," she said as she rearranged her skirts, not making eye contact with her daughter. "Lady Adlen…well, she hasn't been exactly pleased with me as of late." Monica grimaced, knowing far too well the extent of the situation. "And on top of it, it's a long journey; there's travel costs and lodging and food…" She threw up her hands in a helpless gesture." And you see what we have there—that's _all_ of our savings, Monica. It's not just the costs of the trip that worry me. If I'm not working, I'm not making money."

"So what does that mean for Aventus?" Monica frowned, eyes clouding over with worry, and Guinevere finally met her daughter's gaze.

"I need you to go and get him." For a moment, Monica simply sat in silence.

"What? Mama, you can't be serious." She stared across the table at her mother, aghast. "I can't go to Skyrim, I've barely ever left Battlehorn, and I've only been to Chorrol, what, _twice_? And I can't—"

"Monica." Her mother's voice cut her off, and she immediately fell silent. Guinevere was using her serious tone—something Monica hadn't heard since she was in her teens. "I know it's asking a lot, but I _need_ you to do this for me." Monica bit the inside of her lip at Guinevere's earnest expression. Her tone was bordering on pleading, and that made her feel distinctly nervous. "I need you to do it for Aventus."

Monica sighed. Despite the overwhelming notion of travelling across Tamriel on her own, the thought of her little cousin trapped among strangers was unbearable. And besides, she was already feeling haunted by her mother's desperate expression and by the meager weight of the coinpurse. So even though there was an uncomfortable tightness in her chest, she began to nod.

"All right," she relented. "I'll do it." The look of pure relief that filled Guinevere's puffy eyes nearly made up for the newly-developed anxiety boiling inside her.

"Thank you." Her mother reached across the table to squeeze her hand. "I really do appreciate this."

"How am I going to get there?" she asked, her mind already spinning. If she was doing this—_really_ doing this—she at least needed to know exactly what it would entail. Questions were piling up against each other in her head, and she was already beginning to feel suffocated by them.

"The Pale Pass route would probably be best this time of year," Guinevere answered, propping her elbows on the tabletop. "You can get a carriage from Chorrol to Bruma easily enough, and then I'm sure it will be no trouble to find passage across the border." At Monica's doubtful look, Guinevere smiled faintly. "We'll figure it out. I think Avik was up that way a few years ago; I'm sure he knows what the travel's like. I'll ask around."

Her words were meant to be reassuring, but Monica only felt her apprehension multiply. Aside from a few rare trips to Chorrol, she'd left Battlehorn only once in her life, and that had been when she was no older than Aventus, safe under the watch of her parents. Setting out on her own was entirely different—not to mention downright terrifying. But she'd pull through it. She had to—for Aventus. They'd figure out the arrangements, she'd follow the plan, and she'd bring Aventus back safe and sound. Everything would work itself out. She would have nothing to worry about.


	3. Chapter 2: Unbroken Road

**A/N: I am so, so sorry that this chapter took so long to get out. It didn't want to get written for some reason, and it was a real struggle. So again, my apologies. Updates should be much more frequent from here on out.**

* * *

Chapter 2: Unbroken Road

Several weeks later, Monica stood in front of North Country Stables, her pack of belongings on her back and her heavy woolen cloak over her arm. It wasn't even eight o'clock, but the sun was already scorching, and as time wore on, its rays began to beat down upon the paving stones, sending waves of heat shimmering upward. It would be a downright miserable day to spend in a carriage, bumping along in the dust for hours with no escape from the tyranny of the sun. But unfortunately enough for her, that was her plan for the day.

After weeks of planning, she and Guinevere had finally gotten the arrangements in order. Avik had hitched up one of the older mares and driven her down from Battlehorn that morning, and today she would take a carriage to Bruma. Tomorrow, she would begin the actual journey to Skyrim, a trip that would take her across the Jerall Mountains and end in the Skyrim city of Whiterun. From there, she would go on to a city called Riften, where Honorhall, the orphanage caring for Aventus, was located.

She shifted her cloak from one arm to another, grimacing at the sweat-dampened sleeve of her dress. She'd protested that she didn't need to bring the cloak along, but her mother had insisted that the pass would be cold, even in the summertime. Shielding her eyes from the glare, she turned to gaze at the Jeralls, noting the whiteness at the peaks. Hard to believe that tomorrow, she would be up among them.

She turned her head at the sound of a creaking hinge to see a figure exiting the stables. He headed toward the corral, pausing when he caught sight of her. "Here for the nine o'clock to Bruma?" he asked. At her nod, he smiled. "I'm getting the horses ready now. Shouldn't be too much longer. We may even get an early start." He turned back to the corral, but then paused again. "Oh, and it's a twenty septim fare. Just in case you wanted to go ahead and get that ready."

Her hand immediately flew to her belt, where the coinpurse resided, along with the pouch containing her identification papers and the letter from the steward. She'd been anxiously reaching for them all morning, afraid that they'd somehow been lost—either fallen off or stolen. To her relief, they were still in their place, but she still glanced around nervously as she tugged the coinpurse free. Handling coin always made her nervous—especially out in the open like this and in these amounts. Five hundred septims even glittered back at her when she opened the coinpurse—the majority of her mother's life savings. It would be just enough to cover the costs of the trip, but she had every intention of bringing as much of it back as she could. Travel and inn costs were set in stone, but she was hoping to save on food. She'd raided the kitchen last night, and had managed to cram at least a day or two's worth of provisions into her pack.

"All right, folks!" The driver's voice broke through her thoughts. "We're all set to get on the road. Please line up in an orderly fashion and have your payment ready as you climb in. Larena here," he indicated toward the burly woman in armor at his side, "will be our guard today."

"The guard's just a precaution," someone muttered as they filed toward the carriage. "Attacks have gone down since drivers stopped carrying the payment with them." Actually, Monica noted as she handed her fare over, touching the coinpurse once again as she took her seat, their danger would be minimal today because it wasn't raiding season. In the height of summer, food was plentiful, but come autumn, bandit tribes would begin stocking up for the winter, and they would be hungry again come spring.

As predicted, the journey was uneventful. She was pleasantly surprised, however, that most of the Orange Road was heavily shaded, making the day far less uncomfortable than anticipated. She had seen the expanse of the Great Forest from the battlements at home, of course, but the distance failed to capture the full scope of it. They stopped around noon to let the horses drink, but the constant jolting motion and being crushed in with the other passengers still wore on her, a fact that was only made worse when they made the turn onto the Silver Road. But as the carriage approached Wildeye Stables, her throbbing head and aching body were quickly forgotten as she stared around in wonder. Everything about the land was different from anything she'd ever seen before—colors, textures, flora, smells—and when she glanced to the north, the white peaks of the Jeralls seemed to be looming directly overhead. It suddenly struck her how high up they really were—and just how much further she had to go.

"First time in Bruma?" the elderly woman seated beside her ventured with a smile, which she tentatively returned.

"Yes, ma'am." She glanced around at their surroundings again, then back to the woman. "It's amazing, it's…" She shook her head and the woman chuckled.

"Ah, I remember leaving my home hold for the first time," she laughed. "Of course that was quite a long time ago." For a moment, a flicker of nostalgia drifted across her face. "Are you staying here long?"

Monica shook her head. "Just for the night," she said quickly. "Then I'm off to Skyrim in the morning."

"Ah." The woman nodded. "Not a lot of time to see the sights, then." She squinted up at the sun. "You still have some time to explore, though. I'd recommend saving the Akaviri museum for another time, but the statue of the Champion of Cyrodiil is up by the north gate, and the Chapel of the Eight is right in the center of town." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It used to be the Great Chapel of Talos, though," she hissed, and Monica cringed at the mention of the false god, although she forced herself to nod politely. The venom that had crept into the woman's otherwise-kindly demeanor also sent a chill down her spine, but then the woman's smile returned as she changed the subject.

"Do you know where you're staying?" she asked, and Monica reached for her belt, where the itinerary Guinevere had written for her was tucked alongside her other papers.

"Elle's Tap and Tack," she read, but the woman frowned.

"Are you dead set on that?" she asked. "For five septims more you could go up the hill to the Three-Eyed Raven. It's rumored to be haunted, if you believe in that sort of thing, but for what it's worth, it's probably your better option. I know Elle, and she's a good woman, but the place caters mostly to mercenary types. It's pretty rough." The woman grimaced. "Actually, the entire south side of the city is rough. I'd stay away from it if I were you." It did sound like a better idea, and five septims more wasn't much, but Guinevere was already twenty septims poorer than she could afford to be.

"I think I'll stick with my plans," Monica said, touching the coinpurse for what was probably the fiftieth time that day, "but thank you. For the advice, and for the recommendations." The carriage had rolled to a stop, and the driver was calling for passengers to disembark.

"Of course, dear," the woman said as they began collecting their belongings. "Enjoy your stay." As she stood, her cloak shifted, and Monica caught sight of a flash of steel at her side. Her eyes widened, her stare following the woman as she hurried over toward a man with a heavy beard shot with silver who was calling her "Ma." She shook her head as she climbed down from the carriage herself, shouldering her pack and joining the throng of other passengers drifting in the direction of the city gates. Less than a day since she left home, and she'd already met a Talos-worshiper—who was also a little old lady toting a massive sword, no less. What a strange place this was.

* * *

As soon as she stepped inside the city gates, she once again felt the breath sucked from her lungs. It lacked the quaint, picturesque beauty of Chorrol, but Bruma was downright impressive. Built into the mountainside, it was structured so that several stone tiers ran the length of the city, with the buildings lining the edges. In a way, the imposing stone walls reminded her of home, but the resemblance ended there. The rugged logs that made up the buildings were nothing like Battlehorn's even stone and neat timbers.

According to the maps Guinevere had packed for her, Elle's Tap and Tack was just inside the gates. She spotted it almost immediately, but as she approached, the door was abruptly flung open, and a cluster of figures stumbled out, laughing loudly and clearly drunk. She froze in her tracks, staring at the spectacle the woman in the carriage had warned her about. _Five septims…_ She touched the coinpurse. But then one of the drunks vomited, his friends shouting and hooting louder than ever. Shuddering, she turned and headed up the hill. At this point, the price would be worth it.

The Three-Eyed Raven, according to the map, was on the first ledge, down at the end of the street. But multiple sets of stone stairs providing access to the street below had been cut into the ledge, and she was forced to carefully pick her way around them. She vaguely wondered if that was even safe, thinking of how icy the stairs to the battlements at home got in the winter. But she arrived at the door soon enough, swinging it open on soundless hinges and stepping into the cool dimness.

The publican took her coin and showed her to a spacious room on the underground lower level before pointing her in the direction of the Champion of Cyrodiil's statue. However, as she stood gazing up at the stone likeness, Monica was not particularly impressed by it. It was located on the highest level, overlooking the rooftops of the city. It was the quietest area of the city so far, and she wondered if it was due to the fact that the gates to the castle loomed just down the street. But it wasn't just the eerie desertion—it was the Champion's likeness itself, austere and unyielding as it stared coldly over the city. The unease was sending shivers down her spine, and she nervously backed away, turning south down the street. She'd passed the chapel on her way to the inn, but it couldn't hurt to take a closer look.

But the sense of disquiet that had settled over her didn't fade away as she approached the Chapel of the Eight. Maybe it was due to the surprisingly chilly breeze blowing through the city, or maybe it was the words of the woman from the carriage. _Talos_. She silently repeated the name to herself. The Emperor who had united all of Tamriel, but upon death had been revered as a god, due to mankind's folly and hubris. She had read _The Talos Mistake_ in her lessons a child. Every young person in Battlehorn had. Her parents had simply nodded when she mentioned it, and urged her to finish her homework.

There was something else, though, something prickling at the corners of her memory. She'd been in bed, trying to sleep, but all the while hearing her father's angry voice from the kitchen. There'd been her mother's hushed whispers as she tried to quiet him down, and his voice would drop, only to flare back up again. And during the peaks of the crescendos, she was certain she'd heard the name "Talos."

But it'd been a long time ago. She shook her head as she turned to retreat to the Three-Eyed Raven. She'd been planning on going into the chapel and saying a prayer for safety on her journey, but the sun had nearly disappeared, and it really was downright cold now. She shivered as she skittered along the hazardous street, thinking of the Jeralls' white peaks. Perhaps her mother had been right about the cloak.

* * *

Monica wasn't sure she believed in ghosts. At home, the fact that raiding season occurred twice a year meant that people died sometimes, she had certainly never seen any of them lurking around the castle. But even though she was doubtful of the woman's claims that the Three-Eyed Raven was haunted, she still found it surprisingly difficult to sleep. The inn was full of unfamiliar sounds, from footsteps clattering overhead to the hum of voices out in the hallway, and often these would occur just as she was teetering on the edge wakefulness, startling her from her almost-slumber and leaving her to toss and turn and punch her pillow for the next hour. And when sleep found her at last, her dreams were filled with shadowy not-quite deities and voices from the past.

When she finally awoke, she was disoriented by the pitch blackness. Since their quarters were underground, Guinevere always left a torch burning low out in the hall so they'd at least have a faint light to rise by in the morning; she'd never let it go out. Then she remembered where she was, and reached out to light her bedside candle, hands fumbling in the dark. As the candle flared to life, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and leaned across the nightstand to squint at the clock sitting there. As her foggy brain registered the placement of the hands, she let out a gasp, eyes springing wide with panic as she leapt out of bed.

Quarter to eight. It was a quarter to eight, and the carriage across the Jeralls was leaving in fifteen minutes. She grabbed for yesterday's dress, yanking it over her head as she jammed her feet into her shoes. Her hair was a wild tangle sticking up in every direction, but that would have to wait. Sweeping the rest of her belongings into her pack, she slung it over her shoulder and raced upstairs, calling something to the innkeeper about leaving the candle burning as she stumbled out the front door.

Bruma's morning air was brisk, and she shivered slightly as she hurried along. She could still make it, she thought desperately. She could. She _had_ to. As she approached the gates, her hand went to her belt—an increasingly habitual gesture. The coinpurse, and—

Her heart froze with a jolt, and she immediately spun around in her tracks, spitting out a string of curses the likes of which she'd never before uttered, the kind she'd only ever heard Dunmeri sailors use. The pouch containing her travel documents was gone—she'd left it on top of the dresser back at the inn. She broke into a run, sprinting along faster than she ever had in her life. As she skittered around the stair breaks, pedestrians dodged out of her way, muttering curses of their own. The innkeeper let out a gasp as she barreled through the doors of the Three-Eyed Raven, sending one bouncing off the wall. She shouted an apology as she dashed down the stairs, bursting into the now-dark room she'd occupied the night before and groping along the top of the dresser. When her hand closed around leather, she snagged it and sprinted back out.

But as she ran along, the chapel bells began to toll, marking the hour. She'd now officially missed the carriage. But it _could_ be running late, though, she thought, picking up speed. Her legs pounded out a furious rhythm, her chest burning and her lungs screaming for air. Miraculously, the guard already had the gates open for a traveler entering the city, and she hurtled past him through the gap.

Her vision began to swim as she closed the distance to the stables, but as she approached, she managed to make out a wagon filled with passengers, the driver just about to climb up into his seat. Relief coursed through her veins, and she let out a breathless laugh as she staggered up to it. "Wait!" she cried out desperately, and the driver paused.

"Yeah?" He frowned as she stumbled to a stop, doubling over and planting her hands on her knees as she gasped for breath.

"I'm not too late, am I?" she wheezed. "I have my fare—I have it right here." She grasped at her coinpurse, but when she glanced up at the driver, he was staring at her doubtfully.

"The fare?" he asked. "You must be looking for the eight o'clock to Whiterun." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Already left."

Her spasming lungs forgotten, she jerked up to full height. "Seriously?" She could feel tears of frustration springing to her eyes as the driver nodded. "When will the next one be?" she asked shakily, trying very hard to keep her tone even. Crying wouldn't solve anything. She had to stay calm, to find a solution.

The driver only shrugged. "Beats me. Another week?" he ventured. "I don't work for public transportation. I was only hired to take these good folks to their summer trapping grounds." He pointed to the wagon, and for the first time she took a good look at its occupants. Rough-looking men and women in worn leather and ragged fur stared back at her—some of which, she realized with a sinking feeling, she'd seen outside Elle's Tap and Tack last night.

"Throat of the World, darlin'!" one of them shouted out, and the others chuckled. "Only place in Tamriel where the good pelts start coming in by Hearthfire." A thought suddenly occurred to her, and she turned to the driver.

"You're crossing the Jeralls, then?" she asked eagerly.

"That's right." He nodded, and she swallowed hard as she gathered her courage.

"Can I come with you?" she asked. The driver's eyebrows shot up, his expression as indignant as if she'd asked for his firstborn child.

"Can you come with us?" he repeated. "What part of 'this isn't public transportation' don't you understand?" The trappers burst into uproarious laughter, and Monica's face flamed in embarrassment. She could feel tears pricking at the corners of her eyes again, but she doggedly persisted. _For Aventus._

"I can pay," she said quickly. "I have the money." She held out her coinpurse, but the driver's eyes narrowed.

"Thing is, I made a contract with these good folks to drop them in Ivarstead. And that's not anywhere near Whiterun. I'd have to go out of my way. Wouldn't be good for business, you see." He shook his head as she blinked back the tears, but one of the trappers suddenly spoke up.

"Eh, come on, Eran," he shouted. "Just drop her at Helgen. She can find her way from there."

"Yeah, come on, can we just get going?" another added in.

The driver sighed. "Look I can't let just anyone on," he said. "I don't know who you are or where you came from, but I _do _know the penalty for transporting fugitives across borders."

"I have my papers," she insisted, tugging open the pouch she still clutched and handing the papers over. "I'm an Imperial citizen, and I have no bounty. It's perfectly legal for me to travel between provinces."

The driver skimmed over them for a moment, his eyes flashing over the lines of Imperial scribe's neat handwriting. Then he handed them back, heaving another long sigh. "Fine," he relented, and she felt herself breaking into a small smile of triumph. "A hundred septims."

Her smile fell, and for the first time she felt a flash of irritation. "A hundred?" she asked incredulously. "But the standard fare's only seventy-five!"

The driver crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm doing you a favor here," he said sharply. "Besides, you're going to use up supplies—supplies I hadn't counted on losing. Supplies I'll have to replace." He raised his eyebrows. "Or you can wait until next week. Your choice." Another week of inn and food costs, and she wouldn't be able to afford to make it to Riften and back.

"Fine." Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she quietly fished out the amount and handed it over. The driver jabbed a finger at the wagon as he swung into his seat.

"Hurry up and get in," he ordered. "We've wasted enough time already."

* * *

The trappers' stares were intent on her as the wagon slowly lurched up the mountain, relentless even as she self-consciously sat staring at her folded hands in her lap. They were probably harmless, but they still put her in mind of bandits—a fact that made her exceptionally nervous. On top of it, she had a knot of guilt gnawing at her stomach as she thought about how much money she'd wasted in the past two days. If only she had just stayed at Elle's. That single lapse in judgment had ultimately cost her thirty septims, and now she was stuck for three days with the very people she'd been trying to avoid. Even as they joked amongst themselves, their eyes never left her, and the journey quickly turned into a test of nerves as she willed herself not to squirm beneath their gaze.

That night, the driver loaned her an extra bedroll, and she was crowded into a tent along with two other women—one who snored loudly and another who talked and thrashed about in her sleep. In addition, the ground was hard and it was _cold_. At dawn, she crawled out of the tent into the bone-chilling air, bundled in her cloak. Every muscle in her body ached as she dragged herself across the campsite to the fire, where she tried in vain to warm her numb, purple fingertips. As the trappers disassembled the camp, she gnawed on a stale piece of the bread she'd swiped from the Battlehorn kitchens, and then they were on the road again.

They hadn't been travelling for long—perhaps only an hour or two—when the driver suddenly let out a curse, slowing the wagon to a stop. The trappers were instantly on their feet and leaning out of the wagon, attention captured by something in the road ahead. Monica remained seated but craned her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening through several bodies worth of armor. "Is there a problem here?" the driver was asking. Glancing upward, she saw several dark plumes of smoke staining the pale blue sky. An encampment of some sort—were they being robbed? She suddenly remembered the driver pocketing her coin, and her heart began to race. If they'd been stopped by bandits…

But although the reply the driver was receiving bore a hint of menace, it was entirely civil. "I'm sorry, sir, but you'll need to turn this wagon around right now," a commanding voice ordered.

"Why?" the driver demanded, his tone quickly developing an edge. "What's going on here?"

"I'm sorry, but the pass is closed. Please turn the wagon around and return to Cyrodiil." This time there was a warning in the voice. A grumble of dissent rose up from the trappers, and Monica twisted around in her seat, leaning as far out as she dared in attempt to see past them.

"Closed?" the driver demanded in a rising voice. "I have a contract to fulfill, dammit!"

"Sir." There was a rasp of metal. "I'm giving you five minute to get turned around and start heading down this mountain, or there _will_ be repercussions." The trappers' murmurs erupted into a cacophony of shouts, and there was a rippling in the pack of them as one suddenly broke free and charged past Monica, leaping off the back of the wagon.

"_Hey!_" he roared. "I have a_ livelihood _to make, godsdammit! I got three kids and a fourth on the way—how am I supposed to feed them?" His face was scarlet, throbbing veins standing out.

"Stand down, civilian!" Monica drew in a breath as the figure giving the order came into view. She'd know Legion armor anywhere. Her father's set still stood on a mannequin beside her mother's bed.

"He's right!"

"Same here!"

"Imperial bastards!"

The rest of the trappers joined in, the wagon jostling violently as they all charged out of it to stand beside their companion. Several other soldiers came running to stand beside their leader. "_Stand down, civilians!_" he shouted, and there was a sudden metallic chorus as the rest of the soldiers also drew their weapons. "Or I swear, you'll all be under arrest!"

At that Monica dove off the seat, hunkering down beneath the opposite row. Her view of the scene unfolding beside the wagon was blocked, but she could still hear everything: the trappers arguing, the soldiers threatening to arrest them, the driver screaming for them to get back in their seats. This was bad, she realized, this was very bad. In a matter of minutes, at best they'd be in the wagon headed back to Bruma, at worst the confrontation would turn violent. Terror welled up in her, but she struggled to think, to organize her thoughts into something coherent.

If the pass was closed, she'd have to find some other way into Skyrim, and that would likely mean going through Morrowind. By the time she made it back to Battlehorn, they'd have just over three hundred septims left—not enough for a whole other trip. And while they were saving up the difference—however long that would take—Aventus would be growing up in that orphanage, feeling abandoned, thinking his only family had forgotten him…

The Legion officer was still screaming, but the shouts of the trappers were dying down. She sucked in a deep breath, closing her eyes as she tilted her head back against the edge of the seat. There'd be no turning back from what she was about to do. Divines help her.

She lightly sprang from the back of the wagon, keeping low as she dashed toward an outcropping of rock, the hem of her cloak brushing along the ground. Darting around it, she pressed her back against the cold stone, trying to slow her breathing as the sounds of the conflict continued. This was illegal, she reminded herself. But Aventus… She quietly pushed off the rock and began to weave through the gaps, never looking back once.

* * *

The sounds of the conflict faded behind her as she slowly made her way up the mountain. The landscape was rugged, jagged spires of earth, but she found the way through cold, unthawed valleys of stone, areas where the sunlight could never manage to entirely reach. Her ears were attentive, constantly listening for sounds of pursuit, but there was nothing. The silence was downright eerie: there were no birds or animals, only the occasional gust of wind whistling past, and the quiet crunch of her footsteps.

She'd hit the snow no more than an hour after she'd left the checkpoint behind. When she'd first caught sight of it, she'd actually stopped in her tracks and stared in amazement. Snow in Last Seed! Despite her now-soaked shoes and socks, a grin made its way across her face as she trekked forward. She'd always loved snow. When she was young, she and Heidmir would spill out into the courtyard at the first snow of the year, making forts and engaging in snowball fights with the other children.

As dusk approached and vegetation began to reappear, she found the road again. She breathed a deep sigh of relief as she hurried forward toward it. The fear that she'd end up lost on the mountain and end up freezing or starving to death had begun nagging at the back of her mind several hours back. But when she saw the wagon tracks cutting through the otherwise pristine snow, she retreated back into the trees. Someone had been through here recently, and she wasn't about to get caught crossing a border illegally.

But she was curious about the source of the tracks. Had the trappers' wagon been let through after all? Had it somehow gotten ahead of her as she'd clambered across the crags? But then she remembered the carriage she'd missed. With stronger horses and a lighter load, they could have easily gotten far ahead of the trappers—which meant the pass had to have_ just _been closed. Once again, she cursed her decision to stay at the Three-Eyed Raven as she hurried through the trees, keeping an eye on the road the entire time.

She slept under a massive pine that night, in a tiny bare area of space where the snow had been unable to filter through the boughs. The wind's whistles continued through the night, and she was constantly stirring, only to bury her head back inside her cloak and try desperately to think of something_ warm_.

When dawn finally arrived, she awoke with the sun, shaking a coating of frost from the folds of her cloak before beginning her trek down the mountainside. When she looked behind her, she could already see the massive peaks towering high in the distance. She'd made some significant progress the day before, she noted with a tinge of pride. She was slower on foot, but maybe she was closer than she thought. Perhaps she'd even make it to that town—Helgen, the driver had called it—before the day was up.

"Hold it right there."

The sound of a human voice, entirely unexpected after so many hours of isolation, shocked her to the core, eliciting a gasp of fear as she whipped around, searching for the source. She caught sight of a flash of blue—right as she came face to face with the jagged barb of a readied arrow.


	4. Chapter 3: Bear Country

**A/N: I know I promised more frequent updates, but let's just say the stars did not align. Anyhow, here it is. I've been worrying that things have been boring so far, but that won't be the case after this chapter. Things are about to change.**

* * *

Chapter 3: Bear Country

For a moment, Monica was too petrified by the arrow in her face to even think of its wielder. Then she realized that there was someone standing behind the bow about to release the string—yet hadn't done so yet.

"Please don't shoot me." Her voice was husky with fear as she slowly lifted her trembling hands in a gesture of surrender. "Please don't."

"What are you doing here?" At the sound of her assailant's voice, her gaze flickered to the man behind the bow. His hair was grimy and his face was streaked with dirt, but although his armor was worn, the wide blue sash across it seemed to indicate a uniform of some sort. He clearly wasn't a bandit, and at that, she relaxed slightly.

"Are you a guard?" she asked. "Is Helgen nearby?" She began to lower her hands, but there was a soft scraping sound, and she let out a strangled gasp of terror as her head was roughly yanked back and she felt the cold bite of steel at her throat.

"Better answer the question." The voice in her ear was low and dangerous, and she quickly choked out a reply.

"Helgen! I'm just trying to get to Helgen!" she yelped, trying to remain perfectly still. "They said I could get to Whiterun from there!"

"'They?'" The voice grew sharper. "Who's 'they?'"

"The trappers." Her throat suddenly felt incredibly dry, but she didn't dare swallow. "The trappers I crossed the mountain with."

"Igor?" the woman asked.

"There's a set of wagon tracks, a couple days old." Another figure appeared to the left of her field of vision, and she instinctively turned her head in that direction—only to let out a hiss of pain as the blade at her throat broke through flesh. "Other than that, nothing."

"Figured as much." The pain at her neck worsened as the woman pressed the blade deeper. "You've got about thirty seconds to give the _real_ reason you're up here, or I send you straight to Sovngarde."

She was serious, Monica realized. She was actually serious. As the dread began to pump through her veins, she miserably realized that she was caught. How could she have been so stupid, as to think that she could actually just slip across the border and get away with it? If she confessed, she'd be arrested, and there'd be no hope for reclaiming Aventus. But if she didn't…

"I...the trappers, we…" She nervously licked her lips. Her mother was going to be so angry—and disappointed.

"Spit it out," snarled the archer.

"They never made it over the mountain," she blurted out. "The pass was closed, and when they challenged the soldiers, I…I snuck through on foot." She braced herself, but was met only with silence.

"The pass is closed?" The woman holding the blade to her neck repeated the words, astonishment creeping through her tone. The blade suddenly disappeared, and the woman grabbed her arm, yanking her around to face her. "Why?" she demanded.

Monica blinked. "Something about avalanches, I think?" she tentatively ventured. There was something about the woman's reaction was distinctly unsettling. Maybe it was the glint in her eye, or maybe the fact that she hadn't said a word about her illegal border crossing. Either way, it made her skin crawl.

"Jyta?" Igor asked. Jyta's gaze didn't move from Monica's as she pursed her lips.

"You might be useful," she said finally. She nodded, and Igor stepped forward and pulled Monica's pack from her shoulders, tugging open the top and glancing inside. Monica opened her mouth to protest, but Jyta brandished her dagger, and she shrank back. "Turn around and start walking. Try anything, and I _will _kill you. Understand?"

Monica could only nod, her head bobbing helplessly as Igor and the archer moved up to flank her on either side. She lifted trembling fingers to her neck, staring as they came away slick with blood.

"Hey." And she froze as she felt a prick, just to the right of her spine. "I said move."

Her legs quivered as she stumbled forward, her stomach lurching at the thought of the blade piercing her spine. Jyta would bury the dagger in her back if she made a single wrong move, she just knew it. The knowledge had calcified along her bones, leaving them brittle with fear. And a tiny, wise voice she hadn't known she possessed whispered inside her head, informing her of the truth she wasn't ready to face: that these soldiers were not operating under Imperial law. Whatever fears she'd had about setting out on her own, this was much, much worse.

* * *

They walked on. Somehow she managed to keep herself upright and moving forward, and Jyta's blade hadn't plunged into her back—yet. She felt numb though, all her senses dulled as though her fear was a great lake she was drowning in. Every ounce of her energy was entirely devoted to keeping as slow and steady as possible. Somewhere in the distant reaches of her consciousness, it vaguely occurred to her to pray—to Stendarr, that these soldiers would show mercy; to Mara, that they would feel even the faintest hint of compassion; to Zenithar, that she could somehow make them understand she bore no threat; to Julianos, that she would have the wits to get herself out of this situation. But if her attention wavered—even for a moment—she knew she would falter, and Jyta would kill her. So she remained silent, gravely focusing on each next step.

Presently, a whiff of wood smoke wafted through her fog, and her gaze rose from the ground in front of her to catch a flutter of movement through the trees. As they emerged into a clearing, she realized that they were in a camp of some sort, filled with weary-looking men and women outfitted in the same armor as her captors. She jumped as Jyta grumbled something out, but quickly realized it was an order of some kind as the unnamed archer took a firm grip on her arm, while Jyta stalked forward to meet a figure by the fire.

"Found something for you," she called out. The other woman rose to her feet, staring suspiciously in Monica's direction.

"What's this?" she asked sharply. Jyta turned back to her.

"Found her up in the mountains. Claims she crossed over with some trappers, but…" Jyta suddenly leaned in closer, and her voice dropping too low to understand. The other woman continued to stare, her deepening frown giving Monica a sick feeling in her stomach. Jyta finally finished, and the woman stepped towards Monica, her gaze never once faltering.

"You're right," she said, lips pursed in a thin line. "I don't like it." She sighed, and finally turned back to Jyta. "Put her somewhere I can keep an eye on her. Not all the scouts are back yet, and he's going to want to deal with this himself." Jyta nodded.

"Yes, ma'am." She strode back over, producing a length of rope, and before Monica could react, grabbed hold of her hands and wound the rope around them.

"You—you don't have to, there's really no need…" Monica began desperately, but Jyta silenced her with a look.

"Be quiet." She yanked the knot taut, and Monica winced, stumbling as Jyta hauled her towards a nearby tree. "Stay here," she ordered, pushing her down beneath it. Kneeling beside her, she set to work on her feet. "Don't move and don't say a word. She'll be watching you," she pointed toward the woman she'd spoken to, "and believe me when I say this." She leaned forward menacingly. "No one in this camp will hesitate to kill you if you try to make a run for it. Understand?"

No, Monica wanted to protest. She didn't understand at all. None of this made any sense and she was terrified out of her wits and she just wanted to go _home._ But Jyta was staring at her, awaiting a response, so she meekly nodded, slipping her gaze down into her lap.

"Good." Jyta abruptly stood. "Remember: _don't move_," she warned, and then her boots trod out of sight.

* * *

Hours passed, and Monica didn't move. The bark of the tree behind her was rough, jabbing her through the fabric of her dress, and with her hands bound it was nearly impossible to maneuver into a more comfortable position—at least not without looking like she was trying to make a break for it. They really _were_ always watching her, she noticed when she finally dared to look up and cautiously glance around the camp. There were no blatant stares, like there'd been from the trappers, but still, there was always someone with an eye on her.

As the sun moved across the sky and her sheer terror from earlier faded to a heavy sense of dread, she wracked her brain for all possible reasons why they might have taken her. It wasn't the border crossing—that much she'd figured out a long while ago. The soldiers had been wary—hostile, even—but even through her fright, she'd noticed something change in Jyta's demeanor when she'd mentioned the pass. She sighed and leaned her head back against the tree. Who _were_ these soldiers, anyway? Locals, she assumed—they definitely weren't Legion, and she didn't recognize the blue sashes they wore as a uniform. They appeared to be Nords, as far as she could tell, although she'd thought she spotted a Redguard among them at one point. But something was off about them—not just that they'd kidnapped her, but how shabby and on-edge they seemed. And as she watched them, she began to recognize certain mannerisms—ones she kept catching herself falling into. Their postures, their heads snapping up at even the slightest of sounds, their hands constantly on their weapons: these people were afraid. But _why?_ She sighed again, bracing against the tree as she dragged her legs up under her. That, she realized grimly, was the real question here.

The unnamed archer brought her a cup of water late in the afternoon, but other than that, activity in the camp gradually slowed to a lull. It was late in the evening, after the sky had gone dark when her ears finally picked up the sound of voices again. There seemed to be a flicker of torchlight at the far end of the camp, and she sat up straighter, straining to see. Several figures were assembled there at the other campfire, their voices carrying across the clearing, but not their words. After a few moments, the gathering broke apart, some dispersing into the tents but others heading in the direction of her tree. As they drew nearer, she recognized more of the now-familiar blue sashes—but the figure in the middle was dressed in civilian clothing, his hands bound together as hers were.

She stared as they brought him closer, but her attention wasn't necessarily captured by the fact that he, too, was a prisoner. It was the sharp features, the elongated ears, the shadowy skin: the new arrival was a Dunmer. Her gaze dropped to her lap as they reached the tree, but she stole another quick glance up. Lord Adlen had been a Dunmer, and so had several of the sailors on that long-ago journey as a child, but elves of any kind were rare in Battlehorn these days.

One of the soldiers shoved the Dunmer down beside her, looming above him while the other bound his feet. With his back to the fire, Monica couldn't make out his face, but his grin practically radiated from him. "Don't try anything now, grey-skin," he taunted, then paused. "Or better yet. Go ahead and make my day." He chuckled as he sauntered back to the fire, and the prisoner spat something at him in Dunmeri—a phrase she recognized, and for a brief moment a smile twitched across her lips.

Alone in the darkness with a stranger, however, the fear that had been fading to an ache over the past several hours began to sharpen again. She could feel his eyes on her as she stared down at her hands. It suddenly occurred to her that he might not have been mistakenly seized—what if he really was some kind of criminal?

"So." There was the sound of a throat being cleared, and she jumped, her head whipping in his direction. He was staring at her, and by the dim distant light of the fire, she could just make out his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Pale skin. Snotty expression," he said thoughtfully. She met his stare with a blank face, bewildered, and his frown deepened. Then his expression smoothed out, his lips curling up into a smile. "You're a Breton," he said triumphantly.

It was her turn for her brow to crease into a frown. His thoughtful expression returned, and without warning, he shifted closer. She inadvertently shrank away, but his head was still inches from her ear. "Got any parlor tricks that might get us out of this?" he muttered.

Parlor tricks? Like _magic_? She shifted guiltily at that. She was no mage by any means, but there had been quite a few hedgewitches at Battlehorn—all of them more than willing to share some of their knowledge with an overeager twelve-year-old. She flexed her fingers at the memory, but her hands had long since lost circulation, and she didn't even feel the power coursing through them until it was too late. Even she jumped as the flash of sparks ignited between her fingers, jerking back and cracking her head against the tree.

"_Hey!_" The angry voice came from the direction of the fire, and her head snapped up to see the soldiers watching, one of them rising to his feet. "What's going on over there?"

"Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head over." Her tongue had glued itself to the roof of her mouth, but to her surprise, the Dunmer shouted back. "We're having ourselves a real wonderful time over here."

The soldier muttered a muffled curse. "Don't make me come over there, grey-skin," he warned, but he sat back down again, turning to his companions once more.

Monica exhaled a shaky breath of relief at the close call, but the Dunmer was poorly attempting to hold back his chuckles. "Now there's an idea; burning the whole place to the ground. Although it might be nice if we weren't at the center of it." She finally turned to face him, and his face widened into a broad grin. "Name's Romlyn Dreth, by the way."

He certainly _seemed_ harmless enough. At any rate, they were in the same boat, and it couldn't hurt to have someone to talk to. She tentatively returned the smile. "Monica Aretino," she finally replied. "And I'm not a Breton."

"Oh?" His eyebrows rose. "You're no Nord, that's for certain. Imperial, then?" At her nod, he chuckled, breaking into another grin.

"But you were partially right," she suddenly blurted out. "My grandfather was a Breton." She paused, glancing upwards at the night sky, but when she glanced back to Romlyn, he was still watching her, an intent expression on his face. "I never met him, though," she continued, feeling suddenly self-conscious. She hadn't meant to start babbling about her family history to a total stranger, but it was such a trite conversation, and at the moment, trite was good. Trite was _normal_. "He died in the war. A lot of people did, I suppose, but still…" She shrugged—a difficult gesture with her hands bound in her lap.

Romlyn exhaled, tilting his head back against the tree. "I knew a few who did," he remarked. "I doubt you're old enough to remember, but not many were untouched by the war. Everybody lost something." His frown returned. "Something _this_ lot can't seem to remember," he added sourly.

At that comment, it was her turn to shift forward curiously. "Romlyn," she asked in a low voice, glancing nervously toward the fire. "Who _are_ they anyway?"

His expression morphed into one of surprise. "The Stormcloaks?" he asked dubiously. His confusion had turned wary. "Formerly the guard force of Windhelm, but becoming more of an army every day. They say Ulfric Stormcloak is looking for war, and if things keep going the way they have been, he just might find it."

That was a name she recognized. The letter informing them of Naalia's death had been written on his behalf. Her confusion must have been evident, as Romlyn clarified further. "You know that the High King was killed?" The courier _had_ mentioned it to Guinevere: political troubles, a dead king…

For the first time, tension filled Romlyn's face as he, too, glanced toward the fire. "It was Jarl Ulfric that killed him," he whispered. "Some folks say it was an honorable duel, other say it was murder. Whatever the case, near everyone's choosing a side. Like I said. War's coming." He sighed, scuffling his bound feet in the dirt. "'Course, the Legion outnumbers them in a major way, and they've gotten real jumpy as a result. This is the thirdtime they've held me up in the past couple months," he added disgustedly. "It's a sad day when providing mead to honest folk for cheap gets you treated like a criminal."

"They captured you for selling cheap mead?" That sounded almost as ludicrous as her own situation. But Romlyn sat up straighter, indignation flashing across his face.

"Not cheap mead!" he protested hotly. "I'm selling good mead for cheap."

"Shut up over there!" yelled one of the soldiers. Romlyn rolled his eyes, but dropped his volume.

"I work for Black-Briar Meadery, you see," he continued in a half-whisper. "A word of advice: don't ever pay for it outright. It's good, but not that good. Horribly overpriced." He shook his head ruefully. "So I sell cases of it for half of what inns and taverns pay through the Meadery." His tone brightened. "Everybody wins."

"And that's why they took you?" she asked. He shook his head.

"No, they took me because I crossed paths with their patrols. Like I said. They're jumpy, and it happens. Third delivery I've lost, though." His gaze turned scrutinizing, as he began to look her over for the first time. "What about you? Same problem, I'm guessing?"

She hesitated. "I…I don't know," she admitted in a whisper. "I…did something stupid, and I _thought_ they were arresting me for it, only…" She quickly relayed the details of her impromptu border crossing, but by the time she finished, Romlyn was shaking his head, once again quietly snickering to himself.

"They don't care. Trust me, anything short of killing or stealing from one of their own don't matter to them. It was the notion of having their location given away that got to them."

"Well, I know _now_," she protested. "They could have just sent me on my way and I'd have never known. What if they _don't_ let us go?"

Romlyn sighed. "Here's how this works," he stated, finality ringing in his tone. "In the morning they'll blindfold us and march us out of the camp, and then they'll leave us somewhere on the road. By noon, we'll both be out of here and on our separate ways." He settled back against the tree. "Might as well try and sleep as best you can," he suggested, shifting his gaze sideways to her. "Staying awake won't make the wait go by any faster."

But morning came and went, and by the time the sun was solidly in the west, Monica and Romlyn were still tied beneath the tree in the Stormcloak camp. And as she grew more nervous, Romlyn seemed to grow more impatient. "Stop that," he hissed, as Monica once again began straining against her bonds. Her wrists were already chafed and raw beneath them, but the urge to break free of them was only growing stronger, boiling just below her skin.

"You said they'd let us go," she whispered back, dropping her hands back down to her lap in defeat. "Why are we still here?"

Romlyn rolled his eyes. "I don't know," he growled through gritted teeth. "They will, though. They always do." She sighed, once more eyeing her hands. "Hey." He nudged her with a foot. "Tell me about this cousin of yours again. You sure you can handle him?"

"What?" Momentarily distracted, she shifted her gaze over to Romlyn.

"You sure you can handle him?" he repeated. "You said he was ten, right? Ten-year-olds are little monsters, you know. You think he'll take kindly to a long-lost relative showing up and dragging him off to another province? He'll be leaving everything he's ever known."

"But he already left it all months ago," she protested. "He's in an orphanage, remember? I'd imagine that _anything_ would be better than that." She chewed on her lip, suddenly worried. "Besides, he seemed nice enough in his letters. Aunt Naalia would have raised him right. I'm sure of it." She was halfway through reiterating every piece of information she had on Aventus when she realized she hadn't been tugging at her bonds the entire time. She paused as she glanced down at her hands, briefest hint of a grim smile flickering across her face. Divines bless Romlyn. But he was recounting all the mischief he'd gotten into behind his parents' backs when he was a child, and she quickly jumped to counter the argument.

* * *

By the time dusk arrived, they had both fallen silent. She barely even had the energy to be afraid anymore—much less carry on a conversation. She hadn't eaten since the morning before, and despite Romlyn's advice, she'd been unable to manage sleep. Every muscle in her body was stiff and aching, her wrists stung, and her head felt liked it'd been wrapped in cotton. Romlyn, too, was slumped against the tree, head bowed. She couldn't tell if his eyes were closed, but she hoped he'd fallen asleep again. At least one of them should get some rest. But despite her heightened nerves, her exhaustion began to overtake her, and her head finally drooped toward her chest. She was just grasping at the faintest reaches of sleep when the shouts unceremoniously wrenched her back.

She sat bolt upright, heart thundering as the volume reached the primal scream of a mob. Romlyn had sat up, too, motionless as he stared across the campsite at the gathering. "Shut up!" someone was bellowing, voice rising above the rest as the command was repeated. The crowd died down to an angry murmur, and then abruptly parted, several figures jostling their way through.

"Azura preserve us." Romlyn's low murmur was barely audible above the noise of the soldiers, but when she turned to him, he was staring straight ahead, his facial muscles gone as stiff as stone.

"What is it?" she hissed, but Romlyn didn't look at her. The fading light may have been playing tricks on her eyes, but his face seemed to have blanched several shades paler.

"It's Ulfric." He was staring at the approaching figures, and her gaze quickly flitted over to them as well.

"The _jarl?_" One of them, she noted, lacked the typical Stormcloak armor, instead dressed all in black. Was it really the ruler of Eastmarch? But Romlyn sucked in a sharp breath, and she turned back to him.

"If he's here…" Romlyn had been so unperturbed by the ordeal, but for the first time, his certainty seemed to waver. "Listen," he whispered hoarsely as the soldiers drew nearer. "Don't say a word. Don't even look at them. Just sit tight and keep quiet, all right?" She couldn't voice her agreement, however, as the soldiers were upon them, stopping merely yards away.

"You swore an oath," the jarl growled, shoving another figure to the ground—a figure wearing Legion armor.

"I had no choice!" the Legionnaire snapped, glaring up at the jarl. "What did you expect? This has gone too far, Ulfric. Even you have to see that."

"All I see is a man without honor," the jarl replied coldly. "You're a traitor, Torbik. And I only regret that I can't give you the traitor's death you deserve." He had drawn a dagger, and as Monica looked on in horror, he yanked the fallen soldier up and slashed it across his throat.

She didn't scream. Not exactly. It was more as though every breath of air in her body had suddenly been forced out, dragging sound along with it. She stared, aghast, as the body crumpled to the ground, eyes popped wide open, dark blood spurting from the grisly opening. The world was spinning, bile rising in her throat. When they'd brought Giovanni Aretino home, he'd been cold and still: features blank, eyes closed, and fatal wounds concealed by the shroud that draped him. But this man's face was frozen in an expression of horror, as if he were still locked in combat with the world he'd just been violently ripped from.

"You_ killed _him!"

"Monica." Romlyn's voice sounded as though it were coming from underwater, but she paid it no mind. The dead man had sprawled at the jarl's feet, his unseeing eyes blankly fixed on her.

"You killed him," she repeated, wrestling free of the dead man's gaze and looking up at the jarl. "You _murdered _a Legionnaire."

"Monica, _shut up_." She felt the impact against her ankle as Romlyn kicked her, his voice gone low and terse. But she couldn't tear her gaze away from the jarl's. She couldn't even breathe.

"I can't believe you killed him," she whispered, her cheeks suddenly wet for some reason.

"She's the one." The soldier Jyta had brought her to when they'd first arrived had stepped up beside the jarl. "The spy."

Spy? Something deep inside her head twitched at that; it wasn't right, she wasn't a spy…

"Has she been interrogated?" the jarl was asking.

The woman shook her head. "I thought you'd want to handle it."

The jarl sighed. "You were right to wait." He motioned to another solider, who knelt and quickly sliced through her bonds. She was hauled to her feet, her legs collapsing beneath her as blood suddenly rushed back through them. Only the soldier's grip on her arm kept her from falling flat out on the forest floor.

"She's just a kid." Romlyn bitterly spat the words out, and with a twinge, she realized he was referring to her. "You've got it all wrong."

"Shut up." One of them delivered a swift kick to Romlyn's ribs. There was a crunching sound of impact, and she gasped as the Dunmer was knocked sideways to the ground. The haze that had been building around her suddenly shattered, and as a surprising strength surged through her, she yanked free of the soldier's grasp and hurled herself at Romlyn's assailant.

"Leave him alone!" She slammed into him, shoving with all her might, and caught off guard, he staggered.

"_Fus!_"

The stinging pain filling her lungs came as shock. _Force_. The thought washed across her consciousness along with the dizziness, the trees that suddenly filled her vision spinning overhead. She'd fallen. Somehow, she'd fallen, but it made no sense…

The trees' spinning began to slow, and the jarl's face appeared in her vision. "You and I need to have a talk." The soldiers once again hauled her up from the ground, their grips threatening to snap her arms, and the jarl turned to his lieutenant. "I want to find out everything she knows."


End file.
